


Bleed for You

by Definitely_Lost



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Because as I write this season 2 still isn't out, But there are other ships too so, F/F, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Iris is here, M/M, Mostly Lancewain, Not Beta Read, Past Abuse, Please dont kill me, Slow Updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25852801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Definitely_Lost/pseuds/Definitely_Lost
Summary: Gawain can’t leave the paladin camp without Squirrel. Similarly, Squirrel can’t leave the paladin camp without Lancelot. It seems that Gawain will just have to deal with it.Morgana doesn’t know what she’s going to do now. All she does know is that she has to find Nimue and make sure she’s alright. She hasn’t the slightest clue how to start.Arthur has been left in charge of the Fey. Should he go across the sea with them and make sure they are safe? Or should he stay behind to find Nimue? Thankfully, the scary and determined Red Spear can help him make the choice.Iris has everything she wanted. She should be happy. But she isn’t. She never seems to be happy.
Relationships: Arthur/Nimue (Cursed) (past), Arthur/Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Morgana | Igraine & Merlin (The Cursed), Morgana | Igraine/Nimue (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 148





	1. Decisions

He woke to firelight. It was damp and cold, but Gawain could see the unmistakable dancing of flames on the canvas walls of a tent. Was he still in Brother Salt’s kitchen? He was lying on his back and not strapped to a chair. He didn’t see anyone else in the tent. He must be somewhere else. 

He tried to sit up, but felt a tug at his wrists and shoulders. He tensed and panicked for only a moment, thinking the paladins might have moved him elsewhere for some different kind of torture. However, he snapped his feeble restraints easily. He turned his head to look at them, expecting ropes, but all he saw was dead blades of grass with tiny vines and flowers weaved throughout. 

He stood and scanned the tent for a weapon or armor of some kind. The best he could find was a metal candle holder. He grabbed it by the base and stormed out of the tent. 

The night air was cool against his skin, which was barely covered by a ripped canvas shirt falling apart at the seams. A gentle rain fell from the sky, falling into his eyes. He blinked the water away, trying to focus on the mayhem at all sides. There was fighting all around him, paladins and royal soldiers attacking each other brutally. They all seemed too busy to even notice Gawain, so he took his chance and bolted, running barefoot over the grass. Distractedly, he noted that all his previous injuries had disappeared, leaving his body whole and his skin unmarked. He grabbed the first horse he came across, a white mare, and leapt on its back, spurring it awake and steering it around the chaos that surrounded him. It gave a quick whinny and dashed out of the camp. It tried to run to the woods, but Gawain steered it back onto the path. He recognized that he was no longer in the paladin’s camp, but the king’s. He needed to get back to Brother Salt’s tent. He’d left something very precious behind. 

He needed to return for Squirrel. 

***

When he arrived at the paladin camp, he found it empty for the most part. Fires were still burning, as if they were expecting the party to return, but judging by what Gawain had seen at the paladin camp, none would be returning soon. 

He guided his horse through the camp, searching for any tent that seemed familiar to him. He’d been injured and dazed when he’d been here previously, and he could barely recognize anything. However, the sound of shouting caught his ear. 

“Get up!” a high pitched voice demanded. “You have to get up!” 

Gawain spotted Squirrel a few feet away, struggling with someone in the midst of several bodies. Each was robed in black, and gold masks littered the ground. The rain had muddied the dirt, and Squirrel drove his feet into the ground, trying hard not to slip. 

Gawain dismounted and ran towards Squirrel. He recognized the man he was tussling with: The Weeping Monk, the one who had captured him in the first place. He grabbed Squirrel’s shoulders and tried to pull him away and out of danger, only knowing that he didn’t want him anywhere near the dangerous Ashman. 

“Stop it!” Squirrel shrieked, not even bothering to look at who was pulling him. He elbowed Gawain in the torso, and he doubled over without his armor to protect him from the surprisingly strong blow. Squirrel ran right back to the Monk’s side and grabbed a long knife from the ground. He whipped around, seemingly ready to defend himself, but when he met Gawain’s eyes he dropped his weapon and smiled brightly. “Green Knight, sir!” 

He dashed forward and threw his arms around Gawain’s waist, and Gawain placed his on the boy’s shoulders. “Squirrel, get behind me.” He tried to maneuver himself in front of Squirrel, but at a second glance he realized the Monk was barely moving. He stepped forward and examined his still body, hunched over in exhaustion. 

“What happened, sir?” Squirrel asked. “You’re not injured anymore. How are you all better?” 

Gawain did not take his eyes away from the Monk. “I do not know, little one. I woke up like this.” He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder and squeezed, but was met with no response but a weak huff. “What happened to you? Did you do this to these men?” He raised a brow at Squirrel, doubtful that he’d managed to take out twenty men and the Weeping Monk all by himself, but not seeing another explanation. 

“It was him, sir,” Squirrel replied. He gestured to the Monk. “He rescued me from the creepy blind monk and killed all the Trinity Guards. But they almost killed him and now he can’t get up, and we have to get him out of here before the other paladins get their wits back about them.” 

Gawain nodded. He knew that though the camp seemed deserted, it was likely that at least a few paladins had been left behind. They would not stay hidden for long. 

Gawain looked back at the weakened Monk, whose breathing was becoming ragged. He still couldn’t form a word. Gawain helped him to sit up, and his eyes fluttered open and shut as he struggled to stay conscious. 

Gawain was hesitant to bring him along. Although he was Fey, he was still the Weeping Monk and he’d still slaughtered hundreds of Gawain’s kind. He’d come close to killing Gawain himself. However, he saw the look in Squirrel’s eyes and knew leaving him behind was not an option. Besides, he would never forgive himself if he did. 

“Alright, get me his horse,” Gawain grunted as he pulled the Monk’s arm over his shoulders and began to stand. The other man groaned in pain as he was pulled to his feet, but he was still too weak to support himself. Gawain dragged him to where Squirrel stood next to a tall black stallion, doing his best to yank it by the reins. It did not budge. 

“Help me get him up,” Gawain ordered. Squirrel used a nearby bench to jump onto the horse’s back and help pull the Monk on behind him. He stayed in the saddle and the Monk wrapped his arms around Squirrel’s waist, partly to keep the boy on the horse and partly to keep himself upright. 

It amazed Gawain. The Monk seemed so protective of Squirrel when hours ago he’d still been wholeheartedly on the paladin’s side. Now, he was slaying Trinity Guards in the Fey boy’s defense?

Gawain didn’t have much time to be amazed. Squirrel’s eyes widened at something behind Gawain and he screamed suddenly, “Look out!” 

Gawain whirled around just in time to kick the paladin with a sword above his head, ready to slice off Gawain’s arm. The young paladin fell backwards and landed on his backside, scrabbling for the sword he’d dropped. 

Gawain snatched the Weeping Monk’s sword from where it lay on the ground and drove it through the paladin’s shoulder before he could recover. The man let out a shallow cry before going limp and silent. 

Gawain didn’t have time to make sure he was truly dead. He leapt on his own white horse and signaled Squirrel. “Can you steer the horse?” he asked breathlessly. 

Squirrel looked at the reins in his hands confusedly. Gawain knew the boy had probably never ridden a horse by himself, and this one was not just any horse, but a carefully trained war horse. Thankfully, the Monk had come out of his daze just enough to grab the reins instead and nod at Gawain. 

“Alright, follow me,” he said, and with the sword still in hand, he turned around and rode out of the camp. The steady hoofbeats behind him let him know that the other two had not fallen behind. Gawain tuned out the screams of the paladins in the distance and focused on getting them out alive. He could worry about what to do next when he’d gotten them all to safety.

* * *

Morgana broke away from Merlin as soon as the wind in her ears stopped howling and the blinding light in her eyes faded. “Where are we?” she demanded. The only thing she could see was Nimue’s face as she slipped from her father’s hand, falling into the dark waters below. She should have _done_ something, but she’d been so afraid she’d been frozen in place, too shocked to move to Nimue’s aid. 

They were in a clearing in a serene forest, birds chirping overhead. Leaves rustled in a slight breeze. The storm clouds had dissipated and made way for soft beams of sunlight. 

Merlin’s eyes were red and puffy, no trace of lightning left in them. His wounds had not closed and he still leaked blood. His clothes were soaked with rainwater. He collapsed to his knees, his expression blank, the sword falling from his hand. It left a burn mark where his palm had gripped it. “Safe,” he answered weakly. 

“Bring us back,” Morgana commanded. She tried to sound intimidating, but her voice shook. How could she have left Nimue? How could she have simply watched as she slipped away? 

“She is gone,” Merlin said quietly, his eyes fluttering closed. “My Nimue is gone…” 

“No, she isn’t.” Morgana grabbed the sword from where he’d dropped it. “I am the Widow and I feel death. She is alive, I know it.” 

“You are not the Widow I know. You do not know how to use your power.” 

“I’ll figure it out,” Morgana said distractedly, trying to concentrate. She’d appeared to Nimue before, when she’d saved her from Father Carden. She’d found her once, she could find her again. But she felt no rush of power nor rustle of fabric, and the winds that had carried her before showed no sign. Her face remained that of a young girl rather than a skeletal wraith. “Damn it, why doesn’t this work?” 

“You are distraught,” Merlin breathed. “Your magic can sense that you are tired and unstable. You need rest.” 

“I need to find Nimue,” Morgana insisted, her teeth gritted. When nothing happened, she threw the sword to the dirt at her feet. “Gah! I’ve done it before, I should be able to do it again!” 

“You did not find Nimue. You found Father Carden, a soul about to perish. And now you have found me.” He smiled faintly. “You cannot leave until you have done your job.” 

Morgana looked at Merlin, on his knees and barely able to stay awake. He was right, he didn’t have much time left. And she did feel a tug, tying her to his doomed soul. She would not be allowed to leave until he was no longer in this state. But that meant she had two options. 

“We’re going to get you to the Fey,” she decided. “And you will heal. Then, we will find Nimue.” She grabbed his arm and tugged him to his feet, supporting him on her own shoulders. The strength she’d just seen his wield was all but gone. 

“Find Nimue,” he muttered, his eyes closing. “It’s a plan.”

* * *

“Save your queen?” The Red Spear looked at him incredulously. “Are you their king?” 

“I-” Arthur paused, unsure of how to answer her. What was he to the Fey? What was he to Nimue? He certainly did not view himself as a king, and he doubted any of Nimue’s people did either. “No,” he finally said. “I’m not. I’m just Arthur.” 

Red Spear nodded to him. “And why is your queen not here, helping to defend her people?” 

“She sacrificed herself for them,” Arthur said, suddenly defensive. “It was very noble of her. She bargained with her life to earn us safe passage to safety.”

“And you waste her sacrifice to stay and rescue her?” The raider chuckled and shook her head. “You Fey kind are running in circles around yourselves.” 

Arthur thought about what she said. It was true, he didn’t want to waste Nimue’s sacrifice. But he still couldn’t leave her. 

“Kaze!” He called behind him. The fierce woman was not far away, wiping her bloodied swords. She glanced at Arthur. “I need you to do something for me.” 

*** 

“Everyone!” Arthur called over the din of the crowd of Fey. “Everyone! I have an announcement!” Kaze, Pym, and the Red Spear stood at his sides, surveying the crowds. 

The Fey turned their eager eyes to him, desperate for orders or instructions, each unsure of what to do. 

“Nimue promised you safe passage to the desert kingdoms,” he said. “And there are three ships waiting to take you there if that is what you desire. Kaze,” he gestured to her, “will be leading you in my stead.” 

Whispers rippled among the crowd, and concerned and eager glances alike. 

“Kaze will lead because I will not be going with you,” Arthur admitted. “I have chosen to stay behind in the hope that I might be able to rescue Nimue. If you wish to stay with me, you may, though I do not advise it. It will be dangerous. It will be hard. But it is what I must do.” 

A few cheers erupted from the crowd, but they fell to silence when others did not join. Arthur hesitated, unsure of what to say next. He’d never had an affinity for dramatic speeches. 

Thankfully, the Red Spear took over for him. She shouted in her loud, commanding voice, which echoed off the cliff sides. “I am the Red Spear. I have chosen to ally myself with the Fey in the hopes that my mortal enemy, Cumber the Ice King, might fall by my hand with your aid. I will provide shelter to any Fey who choose to remain. I have ships, and tents, and plenty of supplies and fighters. When you ride with us, you have nothing to fear.” She raised her spear above her head, and all of her raiders in the crowd began to cheer with strong voices that rang in the wind. 

The Fey joined soon, cheering and beating their fists in the air. Arthur smiled at the Red Spear, who nodded back to him. Did she ever smile? he wondered. He looked back to the crowd and held up a hand to silence them. “Let any Fey who wish to go to safety leave now, before our enemies strike again. We will not think any less of you, I promise this.”

Several Fey, most elderly and sick, boarded the smaller boats and set off. The large ships in the distance, moored at the rocks, were a promise of peace and an end to constant fear for them. Kaze said quietly, “Take care of the rest,” and stalked briskly to join the last ship, ready to guide her people. 

Pym clapped quietly. “Well, now that that’s over, can we start setting up camp? I’d hate to sleep in the sand, and the sun is already setting.” She gave the Red Spear a cheerful smile, and Arthur got the feeling the two were closer than they let on. 

Arthur shook his head and walked away. He felt almost ashamed of his decision to stay, after everything Nimue had sacrificed, but there was still something screaming at him that he had to stay. 

The Red Spear put a hand on his shoulder. “You are doing what you think is right. You are damning the consequences and doing what you must. That is the mark of a leader.” The look in her eyes told him that she’d often told herself the same. He knew that she, as a leader, must have lost many of her men because of choices she’d made. Still, she seemed a much better and more qualified leader than he. 

“Thank you,” he said anyways.

* * *

Iris should have been happy. She had everything she’d worked so hard for (she’d earned it fair and square). She’d done what she said she’d do and she’d killed the Wolf-Blood Witch. _Her_ , she’d done it. Iris had done it. She kept repeating it in her head, making sure it was really real.

And now here she was, among the Trinity Guard. Sure, they weren’t the Red Paladins, but they were better. They were stronger and more respected than the paladins. Iris sure had shown them. 

But she still felt unsatisfied. There wasn’t a single girl in the Cathedral she currently resided in (called the Roman Cathedral, though it wasn’t in Rome) and she told herself she preferred it that way (girls were annoying and only got in the way) but she had to admit it was a bit lonely. Back at the convent other girls had at least known her name, had noticed her and said hello sometimes. Even with the Fey- 

“No,” she whispered, hitting her forehead harshly with the heel of her palm. “They are demons and your time with them was nothing.” She hit herself again, then again, leaving a stinging red mark on her already scarred face. “Nothing,” she repeated. 

She needed air (right then she was cooped up in a smoke-filled room without any windows) so she got up and walked briskly out the door. The hallways didn’t have windows either, only torches and crosses hanging from the walls.

Another of the Trinity Guard was walking opposite her and held out a hand to stop her. Iris couldn’t see his face through his mask. “Sister Iris, where is your mask?” 

Iris had her hood up, and her shoulders were covered, but it was true, her mask was back in her room. “I left it,” she said bitterly. “It made my face itch and my breath hot.” 

“Go back and fetch it, sister,” the guard ordered. Iris gave him a grudging look but turned around anyway and went back to her room. The air inside (and in the whole castle, really) was stuffy and made it hard to take a full breath. 

No one had told her what she was supposed to be doing since she came. She’d been given no orders, and she was to give no orders. What, did they expect her to stay in her room all day and pray until she went crazy? 

“I hate it,” she said quietly to herself once the door was closed. “I hate it. I hate it. I hate it I hate it I hate it IhateitIhateit-” 

She whispered to herself for a few more minutes, letting her anger show and praying for the Lord to give her a sign that she had a purpose. Because she would not stay here if they refused to treat her like one of them. 

_You can’t stay here anyway,_ a voice in the back of her head whispered to her, but she blocked it out with prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot x Gawain!!!! I would die for them, and they are going to co-parent Squirrel, you can fight me if you disagree-  
> There is no way they are making me believe that Morgana just left with Merlin and didn’t try to get Nimue out of the water, because she wouldn’t.   
> Everyone says Arthur and Nimue had no chemistry, and I kind of agree, but I think he does have feelings for her. I just don’t think that they will last.   
> Gosh, Iris is hard to write. I know that everyone hates her but I honestly found myself feeling bad for her at the end. She’s a complex character and I hope I did her justice.


	2. Injuries

The dusty road twined like a snake in front of the three travelers. While the Monk leaned heavily on Squirrel’s shoulders, Gawain noticed, he put his arms around the boy to support him at the same time. It might be the only thing grounding him, keeping him awake through the haze of blood loss. He held the reins in his hands, clasped in front of Squirrel, but trusting the horse to steer itself by the lax way he gripped them. 

Gawain rode his own horse a few paces behind them, keeping them always in his sight. He couldn’t say he trusted the Monk, even if Squirrel did. After everything he’d done, all the people he’d killed, he wasn’t off the hook simply because of one good thing he’d done, especially since Gawain could see no clear reason for the deed. Just that day, he had told Gawain that his place was with the paladins and that the Fey were demons. Gawain had prayed to the Hidden that his words would have some effect on him. Maybe they had. But it wasn’t enough to trust him completely. 

“What is your name, boy?” The Monk asked weakly. His voice was raspy and tired, which wasn’t surprising. 

“Squirrel,” Squirrel replied. 

“A Squirrel is an animal,” the Monk said. “What name were you given?” 

Squirrel hesitated before responding, “I don’t like that name.” 

“It’s still your name.” 

“Fine.” Squirrel gave him a sour look. “It’s Percival.” 

“Percival.” The Monk craned his neck to look at Gawain, who looked up in surprise. “What about you? What is your given name?” 

“You do not know my name?” Gawain asked incredulously. “You hunted me mercilessly as your one mission, and you never knew my name?” 

“We knew you only as the Green Knight,” the Monk said. “Your true name was irrelevant.” He paused for a moment. “Until now.” 

Gawain huffed out a small laugh and stirred his horse forward so he rode next to the Ashman. “It’s Gawain.” 

“Gawain,” the Monk repeated, facing forward again. 

“What about you?” Squirrel asked. “Do you have a real name?”

“… Lancelot,” he said quietly, as though recalling a distant memory. “A long time ago, my name was Lancelot.” 

Gawain noted the small, wistful smile on his face. Perhaps he was remembering better times, times when he had been happy and his hands free of blood. “And so it shall be again,” said the Green Knight cheerfully. “Lancelot.” The name felt smooth on his tongue. He could get used to saying it. It was a far better alternative to the Weeping Monk. 

“Where are we going?” Squirrel asked after a minute of silence, looking at Gawain. “I mean, I’m not one to complain, but unless you’ve got more of whatever magic healed you,  _ Lancelot  _ here is going to need real healer.” The boy made a point of using Lancelot’s true name. 

“I’m a real healer,” Gawain protested. “I’ve treated battle wounds before.” 

“What?” Squirrel demanded. “Why aren’t we stopping? He’s injured  _ pretty bloody badly _ , and he’ll bleed out before the sun sets!”

“We must put distance between us and the paladins,” Gawain explained. “When we are far enough away from them, I will look at his wounds.” 

Lancelot tensed at that, gripping the reins tighter. His horse sensed it and sped up a bit. 

_ Does he not want me to look at them?  _ Gawain wondered to himself.  _ Why in the name of the Hidden would he want to suffer like that? The pain of his wounds is written all over his face.  _

_ A face that is new to me, _ he thought next. Every time he’d seen the man before, he’d worn the hood that cast his face in shadow. Now, with his features exposed in the light, Gawain could get a better look at him. He had carved cheekbones and a sharp jawline, all angular and harsh. His blue eyes shone in the sun, with dark marks like tears dripping over his cheeks, giving him a mournful appearance. His lips curved in the softest yet most sweeping way-

_ Why am I thinking about his lips? His eyes? His face in general?  _ Gawain shook his head as if to swat away his thoughts.  _ I never have to see his face again once we find the rest of the Fey.  _

Because of course, he would find the rest of the Fey. Once they’d dealt with Lancelot’s wounds, they could track them down and he could leave Lancelot with them, then let Nimue decide what to do with him. Lancelot wouldn’t be his problem anymore. That was what he wanted. Definitely. 

But, before he could leave Lancelot, he needed to heal him. He was only a burden to Gawain wounded, and leaving him behind would be easier if Squirrel was not so attached. Because it was definitely Squirrel who was attached, not Gawain. 

***

The sun crawled slowly towards the horizon, and Gawain steered his party towards the woods. They would freeze without a fire, so it was best to have whatever shelter the woods could offer rather than expose themselves in the middle of a clearing. 

Gawain helped Squirrel down from the horse first, once he’d dismounted himself. The boy was light and easy to lift, but getting Lancelot let go of him had been a bit harder. The man was nearly unconscious, his eyes not even open anymore. His arms were still around Squirrel’s waist when Gawain tried to get him down, and it was hard to pry them off. The man was strong, Gawain could feel it even through the cloth of his sleeves. He’d experienced that strength when he’d fought him. 

When they finally managed to get Squirrel off the horse, Gawain told him to start a fire while he helped Lancelot. Squirrel, Gawain had to admit, was quite good at making fires. It was one of the boy’s uses he had to acknowledge. Without the boy to lean on, Lancelot slumped forward onto his horse’s neck. 

Now, getting him down. The man was heavy, he probably weighed just as much as Gawain. On top of that, he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own, so Gawain would have to find a way to move him by himself. 

He sighed.  _ Let’s make this fast, Ashman.  _

Gawain grabbed the back of his hood and his collar and began to drag him down, readjusting his grip to support Lancelot’s shoulders. Before his legs could fall to the ground Gawain put his other arm under Lancelot’s knees and pulled him off the horse completely. He carried Lancelot carefully but quickly to a flat ground next to Squirrel’s fire before squatting and setting him down softly on the ground. Squirrel dashed over to look at the man. 

“Do you think he’s going to be okay?” the boy asked. He tried hard to hide the panic in his voice, but it showed itself despite his best efforts. “Can he breathe?” 

Lancelot nodded subtly. Gawain guessed he could barely hear Squirrel through the gaps in his consciousness, but wanted to reassure the boy anyway. It was comforting to Gawain to know that he genuinely cared about Squirrel. 

“See if you can find some water,” Gawain said slowly, trying to clear his thoughts and only focus on what he remembered of healing. “Don’t wander too far,” he added. 

Squirrel nodded dutifully and dashed off, stopping by the horses to grab an empty waterskin. 

Gawain examined Lancelot’s face first. It was clear of any life threatening injuries, though cleaning them wouldn’t hurt. Gawain ran a finger down one of the teardrops scarring him, then next to a small split in his lip. It was relatively deep and might take a while to heal. There was also a puncture wound by his temple, his dark blood mixing in his thick hair. Gawain pulled out the pins holding it in place, first letting the locks fall into his eyes but then pushing them back and out of the way. There was dust in the wound which he would have to clean out with whatever water Squirrel returned with. 

“I need to look at your other injuries,” Gawain said, putting a hand on the hem of Lancelot’s frock. “I know it might make you uncomfortable. But it has to be done, if you want to live.” 

Lancelot let out a low moan in response, likely not having the energy to form words. 

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. Try not to move too much or you could bleed faster.” Gawain began undoing his baldrics. Once those were gone, he put a hand under his frock and shirt and began to lift. 

Lancelot’s hand on his wrist made him stop. The Ashman gripped him like his life depended on it. Gawain thought he might cut off his circulation. But he understood. 

“I have to,” he said sympathetically, using his other hand to pry Lancelot’s off. However, instead of just letting go he held it, giving Lancelot something else to grip on. He pushed the fabric up and revealed the other man’s torso. 

It was spotted with bruises and cuts, like a collage of purples, blacks, and reds. The bruises outnumbered the cuts by twice the amount. It was obvious that whatever weapons had been used against him had been bludgeons of some kind. 

“What in blazes did they do to you,” Gawain muttered to himself as he inspected them. He pulled a piece of canvas off his already-falling apart shirt and pressed it against some of the scrapes that were still bleeding. Many had sealed themselves with dried blood already, but there was dirt among the scabs and thus danger of infection. His clavicle was bruised the worst, and the bone might be cracked if not fully broken. 

Squirrel returned with the skin full to the brim with water. Without a word, Gawain snatched it from him and poured it over the gashes. Blood ran down Lancelot’s sides and into the dirt. 

Squirrel stared in horror at the massacre that was Lancelot’s chest. Gawain saw the terror in his eyes and quickly said, “Run, boy, see if you can fetch me some feverfew leaves.” Though he doubted a headache was the most pressing of Lancelot’s wounds, he figured it couldn’t hurt. Besides, he needed to get Squirrel’s eyes away. 

The boy rushed off again as the trees went dark. He hoped Squirrel would be able to find his way back without a torch. 

He turned his attention back to Lancelot. He dealt with the most pressing of his wounds both on his torso and face, until most of the blood was gone. He used Lancelot’s sword, which he had taken with him, to cut ribbons off the bottom of Lancelot’s cloak, soak them, and lay them across each cut and bruise to keep them cool and hopefully staunch the bleeding. 

“This part is going to hurt,” he said then, taking a stick from the fire. The end was charred and still aflame, but the place where he gripped it was only slightly warm. “I need to cauterize the worst of your wounds. It will not be pleasant, but you will have a better chance of surviving.” 

Lancelot, too weak and drained to respond, simply sighed painfully. Gawain took it as enough of a yes to proceed. He put a small twig in Lancelot’s mouth to keep him from biting his tongue.

With one hand, he held Lancelot’s hand. With the other, he positioned the stick over the worst of the furrows. He pressed down into it and smelled the smoking flesh. 

He expected Lancelot to scream, but he did not. He simply made a low whine in the back of his throat and inhaled violently through clenched teeth. He did not struggle. The process was over quickly. 

Gawain, satisfied with his work, threw the stick back to the fire and pulled the twig out of Lancelot’s mouth, ready to rest for himself. However, a few slices of red peeking from behind Lancelot’s back that he hadn’t noticed before stopped him from pulling Lancelot’s shirt back down. 

It was a thin strip of brownish-red, not recent but not healed either. Gawain put a hand behind Lancelot’s neck and pulled him into a sitting position before pulling up the rest of his shirt and surveying his back, decidedly not stopping to notice the muscles that rippled over Lancelot’s shoulders. 

The only thing he felt was horror. 

* * *

“Pym, how long is this going to take?” Arthur asked as they walked. “I know you’re very excited, but I really need to talk to the Red Spear about shelter.” 

“That’s what this is about, actually,” Pym replied. “The Red Spear has a lot of tents and ships, but she also has a lot of her own men. There’s no way she has enough shelter for all of the Fey and her raiders unless there are at least seven people in each tent. So,” she led him towards the sea cliffs on the beach, “I have found you another solution.” 

Arthur looked at the sea cave she gestured to. It was the same one that she had hidden the excess Fey in when Cumber’s army had attacked them the day before. At first glance it was just a crevice in the rock, but upon closer inspection it went much deeper into the cliff, folding to give the illusion of a wall. 

“Pym, are you saying there are more caves back there?” Arthur asked. 

Pym gave him a cheerful smile and bounced forward. “It’s perfect!” She did a cute little dance to the very back of the cave before slipping through the crevice. 

“And it doesn’t lead to the edge of some canyon of death or anything, right?” Arthur continued. 

“Just come see!” Pym replied. 

Arthur sighed and strode forward, turning to the side to fit through the crack. He had to admit it was hidden quite well, and even if the paladins were to come to the beach they might not find it. 

He scooted along the wall for a few seconds, sliding through the narrow corridor, before he finally reached an open chamber. 

Pym was right. It was perfect. 

Light poured in from holes like windows along one wall that faced the sea. Stalactites hung from the ceiling with vines that seemed to drip like frozen green waterfalls. The space was huge, perhaps enough to fit an entire raider ship if it could squeeze through the entrance. The central chamber branched out with tunnels like hallways that presumably led to more caves. It was like Nemos, but more open and roofed at the same time. 

“Pym, how did you ever find this?” Arthur asked, his eyes too busy searching the space to meet hers. 

“Oh, no need to thank me. I am far too humble and gracious for you to acknowledge how awesome everything I do is.” She smiled at him. “I think the Fey will like it. It feels more like home than a raider ship.” 

“Does it? To you, I mean,” Arthur said. “You were with the raiders when we found you. How long were you with them? Did you become one?” 

“ _ Become _ one?” Pym let out a huff. “That’s ridiculous. They tried to throw me over the side of a ship then threatened me with sticks and pointy things so I would stitch them up after their all-too-violent raids.” Her words were biting, but he saw a flicker of nostalgia in her eyes. 

“So,” he said, clapping his hands together, “That’s how you and the Red Spear met. I thought I saw her greeting you like an old friend.” 

“Friend is a very strong word. More like, former tyrant.”

“Is she really all that bad?” 

Pym sent a sly smile his way. “What do you think of her?” 

Arthur scratched the back of his neck. “She certainly has a… frightening demeanor.” 

“She does come off very strong doesn’t she? Lots of shouting. I think that’s her inside voice, actually. It’s as quiet as she can physically afford to be.” 

The two laughed quietly to themselves. 

“Well, let’s get the Fey who decided to stay in here,” Pym said excitedly. “We have to start sprucing it up! Get the dust off of everything!”

Arthur didn’t see any dust, but he decided Pym knew what she was doing and exited the cave with her to fetch the others and bring them in. However, there was something of a commotion outside. 

The Red Spear marched out of a crowd of Fey towards Arthur. “Your Fey seem to trust these people. I can’t say I like the look of them. If you won’t vouch for them, I may just run my spear through their intestines to be safe.” She gestured behind her with her weapon (which always seemed to be in her hand, Arthur noted) to two figures on the beach. 

One was draped in a leather cloak of brown and blue, his face hidden as he was bent over the second figure. She was quite a bit shorter than him, and hid her face behind a black veil, much like the black that shrouded the rest of her body like a mist. But what caught Arthur’s attention was not the strange dress of the two, nor their frantic state. 

It was the Sword of Power in the woman’s grasp. 

“Where did you get that?” he demanded. “Did you take it from a girl named Nimue?” 

“Arthur, it’s me,” came a familiar voice from behind the veil. She dropped the sword to the sand and used her free hand to peel the shroud off her face. A gasp rippled through the crowd. 

“Morgana?” Arthur wondered. “What happened to you? Where is Nimue?” 

“I’ll explain later,” she said breathlessly. “Right now, we have a more pressing issue.” 

And she dropped Merlin the Magician in the sand at their feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the semi-cliffhangers... I am tired and must sleep. Hopefully another chapter shall come soon! Let me know what you think so far.. if you want to, no pressure at all.


	3. Hesitations

Gawain took another swig from the waterskin. Perhaps, if he pretended it was gin, he might get dizzy enough to forget what he’d seen. 

Lancelot’s back was like a battlefield. Lacerations cut across it like ribbons wrapping a gift, each one still vibrant red and irritated. They oozed blood slowly, clearly trying to heal but never having enough time to fully recover before being violently ripped open again. Gawain had done his best to clean each one without sensitizing it more. However, he feared there were not enough bandages in the world to heal his wounds. 

The worst part was that they slashed horizontally, implying that they were self-inflicted. The likelihood that he had administered his own punishment under the authority of Father Carden was enough for Gawain to hold back gags every time he looked at the tortured Ashman. 

Squirrel sat across the firepit from Gawain, nibbling at the rabbit bones he’d already picked clean. They were both silent. Lancelot lay on his back next to Gawain, his head elevated on a log for a pillow. Gawain had clothed him again so he would calm down enough to get some sleep, shortly after forcing some water down his throat. 

“So he’s better now?” Squirrel asked finally. “He’s all healed?”

“It’s not quite that simple, but I think he’ll live.” Gawain looked at the sleeping Lancelot, wondering if he was dreaming. “He still needs a proper healer. We have to find the rest of the Fey, and then I’m sure they’ll fix him right up.” 

“They’ll accept him, right?” Squirrel scooted a little closer to the fire and held out his fingers to warm them as the cool night air began to settle. “They’ll forgive him for what he did, because he’s Fey too.” 

Gawain looked up. “How do you know that?” 

“The monk wearing black said it. He said that Lancelot’s species could smell out other Fey. That makes sense, doesn’t it?” Squirrel gave him a suspicious look. “How do  _ you  _ know he’s Fey?” 

“When we fought, his hand absorbed some of the greenery.” Gawain poked the fire with a stick, causing sparks to fly into the air like gnats. “On top of that, he has the eyes of the Ash Folk. I don’t know much about them, since they were exceptionally rare even before Carden’s crusade.” 

Squirrel nodded to show his deep understanding. “Of course.” 

Gawain smiled at the boy. “I wouldn’t worry about what happens when we get back to the Fey. Nimue will just be happy to see you, and I think that between the two of us we can vouch for Lancelot.

_ I hope _ , he didn’t say. 

* * *

Iris didn’t know anything. No one ever talked to her. She was just as unappreciated as she had been in Yvoire Abbey, if not more so. At least in the abbey, the sisters had known her name and cared enough to acknowledge her presence. Here, she was like a ghost. She had to lean against walls sometimes just to make sure she didn’t float right through them. Maybe if she hadn’t burnt the abbey down-

“Stop,” she commanded herself, pinching her arm harshly with her long nails. Lately, she’d been having thoughts about the abbey often. She didn’t miss it, of course. It had been awful there. Really awful. People there were too nice, and had harbored a Fey, for God’s sake. Not just a Fey, but the Wolf-Blood Witch. 

Iris smiled to herself at the memory of her arrows sinking into the girl’s chest. She liked to think of that whenever she wanted to stop thinking about something else (especially the abbey and the other sisters). Just to know that she had done something right, it was enough to make up for the scars raking across her face. And it had been right, because it had gotten her here. 

And… here was where she wanted to be, right? 

Another Trinity Guard rapped harshly on her already-open door. The smoke was getting to be too much with her mask on, so she’d taken to leaving it open to let some of it out into the hall. “Sister, we are meeting with Abbott Wicklow about the fates of the Fey, and he has requested that you join us.” 

Iris nodded curtly at him, not wanting to speak (something about staying silent for hours at a time made forming a coherent sentence out of the blue quite hard for her). She stood stiffly and followed him to a stone chamber (why was she noting that it was stone? Everything in this building was stone) where several other Guards stood around a table. A map rested on said table, and Abbott Wicklow stood at the head. 

Iris took her place in the line and waited for him to begin. When he noticed her there, he pointed to a place on the edge of the map.

“The Beggar’s Coast,” he said matter-of-factly. “The exact place that the Fey supposedly boarded ships to safety, thanks to Uther Pendragon.” His face twisted into something of a scowl at the name of the king. “However, we’ve had word that perhaps not all of the Fey left. Unfortunately, Cumber’s forces, which we trusted to dispose of the Fey, never returned to their king. We can only assume they let the Fey slip through their fingers, or they were slaughtered by those beasts. It’s likely that many of them are still being harbored by towns in the surrounding area, or perhaps they are hiding in caves. Either way, they are still in our lands and must still be exterminated.” He sniffed. “After the untimely demise of Father Carden, the Red Paladins will be no use to us in this endeavor. They are in utter chaos. Those who were not killed by the king’s army have deserted the cause. This leaves us,” he said grandly, gesturing with both arms at the Guards around him, “To exercise the will of the Lord on these demons. We will comb through the Beggar’s coast and find where they are hiding, and if they were stupid enough to stay, well, I suppose they will not need to live with that stupidity for much longer.” 

The way he said those last words, with such chilling conviction, made Iris shiver. She didn’t like Abbott Wicklow. Something about the way his face never showed any emotion, or the way that his neck hunched like he was perpetually slouching, reminded her of a weasel. He was greasy and said things in a way that always gave them a bad connotation. Talking to him was like walking over a minefield. 

She tried not to talk to him. 

She blended into the crowd of Guards exiting the room, her only distinguishing feature being her rather short height (She was determined to grow more, though, sometime in the future). The Abbott was disgusting, but he was right about one thing. 

Whatever Fey had decided to stay wouldn’t be alive for much longer. Because she was going to hunt them down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated... I'll try to be better about that :)
> 
> I'm also sorry that it's so short, but I wanted to give you guys something. 
> 
> Let me know what you think so far!


	4. Dealings

The yellow light of sunrise filtered through the leaves. Gawain applied the paste onto Lancelot’s bottom lip with his thumb, trying to ignore the smug look the Ashman was giving him for reasons he couldn’t fathom. What else was Gawain supposed to be doing?! Lancelot’s lip had split so violently he had trouble taking even a sip of water, and it didn’t show any signs that it might start healing any time soon. Honestly, Lancelot should be grateful that Gawain knew a Fey remedy that wouldn’t harm him if he ingested it. 

Gawain was thankful when he finally wiped his hands off on his pants and stood back up, finished. Lancelot was still slouched against a tree, his legs splayed out in front of him. Under Gawain’s instructions, he wasn’t supposed to move if he didn’t have to, save on and off his horse when they needed to move. For the past few days, the trio had been moving constantly during the daytime and stopping at night, slowly making their way to the Beggar’s coast. Lancelot had been told by the Church that that was the place they had chosen to wipe out the Fey, just as they began to flee to the Desert Kingdoms. Although the outcome of whatever fight might have happened was still unknown, they decided that it was probably their best bet at finding the rest of the Fey.

_“Is it really a good idea to find them?” Lancelot had asked the night before, while Squirrel slept by the dying coals of their fire._

_Gawain had shrugged. “I don’t know what else we can do. Who else will have us? You have no friends that I’m aware of, and the Church has turned every human from here to the Ice Lands against me and Squirrel. The Fey are our last hope.”_

_Lancelot’s face had been steeled, an emotionless mask as it had undoubtedly been trained to be by the paladins. However, Gawain had seen through the mask via Lancelot’s eyes, his one giveaway. Lancelot was afraid. He was terrified of facing the ones he’d spent his whole life hunting, probably. It was understandable._

_“Don’t worry,” he had said. “Squirrel and I will vouch for you. We can protect you from them.”_

_“Why do you want to?” Lancelot sighed. “You should hate me. You both should. You should have left me for dead, or left me to the Church. I don’t deserve your kindness.”_

_“What did I tell you? You and I are the same. You’re one of us. We would never just leave you.” Gawain shrugged. “Besides, if you’re so keen on punishment, you’ll get your due when we get back to the Fey. Right now, your suffering would be pointless. It would only serve to distress Squirrel.” He gestured to the sleeping boy. “He is very fond of you.”_

_He is, Gawain reminded himself. You aren’t. Your job is just to save him, like you’ve saved all the Fey before him. Once you get back to camp, you can leave him. You’ll never have to see him again. But you have to keep him around now for Squirrel. Just to keep Squirrel happy._

_“How will I ever repay you?” Lancelot mused, partly to Gawain and partly to himself._

_Gawain put a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. “Repay us by living.”_

Gawain shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. “We need to keep moving. With any luck, we’ll be on the very beach you spoke of by sunset.” 

Squirrel tugged on what was left of Gawain’s sleeve. “Green Knight, sir? Is there any food?”

Gawain untied the canvas bag from his horse’s saddle and shook it, trying to rustle out any food or supplies that might be left. They had left the paladin camp in a hurry, but now he regretted not raiding their supply tent first. They were entirely out of food, and Lancelot’s wounds got worse by the day despite Gawain’s best efforts. 

“Is there anything left?” Squirrel asked eagerly. 

Gawain shook his head. “I’m sorry, little one. We may have to go the day without any food.” 

Squirrel’s face fell for a moment, but his unending bravery was back in seconds. He nodded solemnly, accepting the idea that he might starve for the day. Gawain would never cease to be impressed with the boy’s maturity. 

Lancelot cleared his throat weakly. “I believe there is a town nearby here. Perhaps we could go there to purchase the materials we need.”

Gawain gave him an exasperated sigh. “I suppose that might have been a good idea if any of us was in good condition to be seen by the public. You-” he pointed at Lancelot, “Are too recognizable, given the markings on your face. You-” he pointed to Squirrel, “Are far too young to be seen alone without raising suspicion, not to mention that I will be caught dead before letting you go anywhere without either of us.” He motioned to himself and Lancelot. Squirrel gave him a scowl. 

“What about you?” Lancelot asked. “You are uninjured and look human enough to pass to the uneducated eye.” 

Gawain gestured towards his clothes. “I’m wearing rags. It’s painfully obvious that I’m on the run from someone, and even if by some miracle I’m not arrested immediately, no one will sell me anything. I look like a criminal.” 

Lancelot began shifting, pulling the cloak around his shoulders over his head. “You can wear this.” He held out the bundled clump of black fabric, coming apart at the hem but functional nonetheless. “It’ll hide your clothes and most of your body. I wouldn’t put the hood up, though. You’ll look too much like me.” 

Gawain took the cloak hesitantly, eyes Lancelot carefully. The man had been so reluctant to remove any clothing before, and yet now he freely offered his outermost layer not only off of himself, but for Gawain to borrow? Had he gotten that much more comfortable with him and Squirrel in only a few days? It didn’t make any semblance of sense. 

However, he decided not to overthink it and took the cape, pulling it over his shoulders. It didn’t cover his feet, but it served to cover the torn canvas he had been calling a shirt for the past few days. “Thank you,” he said hesitantly. 

“It’s the least I can do,” Lancelot ceded. “I owe you my life and more already.” 

Gawain looked down at Squirrel who was watching the exchange silently. “Can you protect our recovering friend here while I’m gone?” he asked. “I’m trusting you to be responsible.” 

Squirrel nodded dutifully. “Of course, Green Knight, sir.” He smiled innocently. “I’ll be very responsible.” 

Gawain narrowed his eyes. “Good.” He hopped up onto his white horse. “I shouldn’t be long. Don’t go anywhere.” He spurred the mare’s flank with his heel and went riding off down the dusty path that cut through the woods. His pockets might be empty, but Squirrel wasn’t the only one with a background in theft. 

* * *

Merlin was sent to the healer’s tent immediately. He had several stab wounds, severe poisoning, and blood loss didn’t even need to be said. His blue and white clothes were practically red. 

Arthur didn’t know what he was supposed to be thinking. Morgana had explained to him the nature of not only her new outfit, but of the fate that had befallen Nimue. To survive capture by the paladins only to be shot and killed by a child? Or, according to Morgana, perhaps she wasn’t dead, and she was left to rot in the watery depths, drowning forever by whatever magic kept her alive. 

“We have to go looking for her,” Arthur insisted. “Morgana, lead us to the exact spot in the Narrows that she fell. We can find her again, and save her.” 

“That’s if she’s even still alive,” Red Spear pointed out. “From what I hear, it sounds like all you’ll be finding is her body.” 

Arthur glared at her. “Morgana said she didn’t feel her death. That means that she could very well be alive and in need of rescuing.” 

“And you want to be the one to rescue her, is that it?” Red Spear demanded. She, Arthur, Morgana, and Pym were the only ones in the tent at the moment. They were supposed to be discussing plans of action, but as far as Arthur was concerned he already had a plan. Find Nimue. 

Arthur nodded, feeling attacked. “Well- I- yes! I think that I-” 

“I think that you were left in charge of her people,” Red Spear interrupted. “Would she want to you abandon that cause on the far-fetched notion that she might have survived not only being shot several times but also free falling off a cliff into a lake? From what you have told me, she was willing to sacrifice herself for her people. She was willing to entrust their fates to you. You would toss aside her wishes so carelessly?” 

“This is not the time for this argument,” Morgana whispered, massaging her temples. 

“I do not toss aside her wishes,” Arthur said defensively. “I will leave these people with someone responsible-” 

“Who? Me? Pym?” Red Spear pointed at herself and her friend. “You cannot keep shrugging the responsibility of your people onto others.” 

“They’re not my people,” Arthur said. 

“They are now,” she protested. 

Morgana held her hands up to shut the pair up. “Everyone just calm down. Arthur, Red Spear has a point.” 

The raider woman gave Arthur a smug look. 

“Just because my sister agrees with you does not mean anything,” Arthur said quickly. “She’s only saying that to disagree with me.”

Morgana gasped angrily. “Arthur, you know, I am ashamed to be related to you. Just hear me out.” She put a hand up again to silence him as he opened his mouth. “I can search for Nimue on my own. I don’t need your help. With my new powers, all you’ll be doing is slowing me down.” 

Arthur scrunched up his nose at her. 

“You can stay here with Red Spear and help to organize these people.” Morgana looked between the aforementioned people to affirm that they were both happy with the arrangement. “That way, it works out for everyone. The people have leaders they can trust and Nimue will be saved, if it’s true that she needs saving.” 

Red Spear nodded. “I think this is a good plan. I agree.” She gave Arthur a pointed glance. 

He sighed in defeat. “Fine. I’ll stay. But the minute you find Nimue, you will bring her back. Right?” 

Morgana nodded. 

Pym finally spoke up. “Well, if that’s settled, there’s another matter. People are reporting shadows moving around in the forests not far from here when they go to gather food. They think the Church might be preparing a second attack.” 

Red Spear stroked her chin. “We can fend off as many attacks as they can muster, but I’m worried about our position. Although the cave you discovered is a wonderful hiding spot, it’s not defensible in terms of defending from a battalion or large attacks of any kind. We are already pressed up to the sea. We will have to take another city and squat there as soon as possible if we want to find truly secure lodging.” 

Pym pouted. “But the caves were so perfect.” 

“Too bad,” Red Spear replied unsympathetically. 

***

“I can’t tell whether she supports me or not,” Arthur ranted later that day to Pym, as soon as they were out of the tent. “First she tells me she supports my decision to stay and find Nimue. Then, as soon as actually finding Nimue becomes an option on the table, she wants me to stay with her on the beach. I don’t get it. Why are women so confusing?” 

“Because you think we all need to be rescued,” Pym said. 

“I don’t think that!” Arthur protested. 

Pym shrugged. “You probably don’t even realize it. But, I mean, come on. You always want to do the rescuing, you know, because you’re the _big, manly masculine man_.” She raised her elbows and strutted about theatrically as she said it. “You don’t like Red Spear because she doesn’t need to be defended or protected. She just wants you to be a responsible leader, that’s all. She’s trying to show you that you can’t always be running off to do your own thing. You have a responsibility to the people you lead, just like she does.” 

Arthur thought about that for a moment. He supposed it might be possible that she was only trying to help, but even so, she was possibly the worst at it that anyone had ever been. 

Pym gave him a pat on the back. “You’ll warm up to her eventually. Everyone does.” 

Arthur scowled. He most certainly would _not_. 


	5. Tactics

When Arthur woke up the next day, Red Spear was waiting for him outside his tent. 

“What is it?” he asked groggily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he peeked through his tent flaps. _It is too early in the morning to deal with her right now,_ he thought. 

“There are reports,” she said. “Some of my scouts have seen shadows in the surrounding forests, and heard rumors. They suspect the Church is planning a second attack.” 

“Shadows?” Arthur sobered instantly. “You mean paladins? I thought Carden was dead. They are leaderless.” 

“There were no red robes,” Red Spear admitted. “But nonetheless, I think it would be wise to establish some kind of patrol or check-in to make sure our borders are safe until we find a walled town to take.” 

“Right, right, a town.” Arthur exited his tent fully, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “We need one of those. For real, this time. Hopefully it won’t turn out like Grammaire.” 

“What happened at Grammaire?” 

“Nothing good.” 

Red Spear brought him into her tent, where she had a map laid out on a crate that sufficed for a table. Her tent was not very well furnished - he imagined she liked to stay on her ship more. The only things he could place were the crate-table and a wool cot where she slept. That, and of course, a rack to hold her spear. 

“Here.” she pointed to a place on the map, a small coast town called Ribury. “I’ve sent a few of my men to scout it out, but if I remember correctly from when we sailed past it is not well guarded and it is large enough to shelter all of us. There are people who will need to be removed, but thankfully there is another town nearby where they can seek shelter, so we won’t be throwing them to the wilds. It also has docks, which means we can take my ships there as well. It would be defensible once we took it over.” 

Arthur looked Red Spear in the eyes. “You’ve been busy, it seems. You figured this all out overnight.” He made an approving face. “I’m impressed.” 

“Don’t be impressed,” she said, unaffected by his small praise. “Be critical. The key to any plan is a second opinion. Do you see any flaws? Anywhere that I left room for error?” 

Arthur looked back at the map. “The journey there, I suppose. It’s a long walk over land, and you don’t have enough ships for all the Fey. If we try and bring the whole group along these trails, we’ll lose most of them.” 

“What do you suggest?” 

Arthur rubbed his chin, thinking. “We move them in groups. Maybe ten or fifteen at a time. It will take longer to get everyone there, but more of us will live.” 

She patted him on the back and smiled. “Good plan. If that’s figured out, the first step is to take the town. I’ll have my raiders go. Your people are still recovering from battle, whilst mine are eager for it.” 

Arthur agreed, and just as he started exiting the tent, she stopped him. 

“Wait,” she said. “The patrols?” 

Arthur remembered what she had said about the Church mounting a second attack. After all, they knew where the Fey were, didn’t they? “I’ll lead a few scouting parties around the forests. It’s far enough away from the sea cliffs that they won’t have pinpointed our exact location, but they’re getting close. We might as well kill them before they find us.” 

“Then I’ll leave with my raiders now, so we can get out of here as soon as possible.” 

Arthur grabbed her arm. “Why are you helping us, by the way?” 

“What?” 

“Why help us? You’re not Fey, and we’ve done nothing for you. You gain nothing from this. So why?” 

Red Spear’s face deepened into a twisted frown. “Your enemy has allied with mine. I am simply returning the favor. The Church is after you, and they have connections to Cumber the Tyrant. I will trace them until I find him and his traitorous daughter, and I will kill them both.” She had gotten a dark look in her eye, and her voice became deeper and more visceral with each word. She was looking quite vengeful in the dim light of the tent. 

Arthur gave her an intimidated thumbs up. “Good enough for me.”

* * *

Gawain rode the unnamed white mare down a path he had found for about an hour, hoping it led somewhere. Lancelot had mentioned a nearby town, so Gawain reasoned that once the woods broke and there was flat ground, men would find it a fair place to settle. That, or they’d cut down the trees and rip out the wildlife to make their own clearing. Men were sick that way. 

Thankfully, it was the foremost. The trees thinned until Gawain could see the open sky, and a broad wall with a tall gate could be seen on the horizon. His horse sped up at the promise of water that might be in the town. 

There was a single guard at the gate, a shabby but pointy spear in his hand. Gawain assessed him as he neared the gate, trying to think up an appropriate approach. 

He could attack the man and go in without having to answer questions. Though he held a spear and Gawain had no weapons (he had left them all at the camp in case someone found him a threat, or so the others could defend themselves in his absence) Gawain was an experienced fighter and could probably take him. However, that would cause a fuss he was not ready to deal with. 

He could lie, and tell the guard the cheap and overused excuse that he was a simple merchant, but that also posed problems of its own. Namely, the fact that he did not have any merchandise. 

There was a third option that was most likely to work. Gawain avoided this one when he could, because he didn’t like it and it felt almost degrading to himself. But, in times of trouble, it delivered. 

“Please!” he said weakly, stopping his horse right in front of the guard. “Help me! I have been robbed! Fey mercenaries cornered me on the road and stole everything I had. I tried to fight them off, but they had horns and claws. You must let me in.” 

“Woah, there!” the guard said, holding his hands up. “That is unfortunate. Those Fey monsters can be tricky, it’s true. But I’m going to need a little more proof than that.” 

“More proof?” Gawain demanded hoarsely. He had always been told he was a good actor, so he did not doubt that this pretense would fool this young human. “What more proof do you need?” He threw his cloak open to reveal his tattered clothing. “They took the clothes right off my body! Left me in rags! I have nothing!” 

“But, um- well, you have a horse-” 

“What use do Fey creatures have of horses? They’re practically animals themselves!” Gawain bit his tongue through that lie. 

“I’m sorry,” the guard said apologetically. “It’s just my job to ask questions! I, um- what good would going into the town of Grimsby serve ya, if it’s true you have nothing?” 

“My uncle,” Gawain lied. “He lives here. I hope he will offer me shelter and money.” 

“Who is your uncle?”

Gawain had no idea what name he should use, but he figured that there were a few names that humans seemed to love so much that there were at least five people of the same title in every town. “John.” 

The guard’s confused face broke into a smile. “Ah, John! A cheerful fellow, quite pinchy with his coin though. I doubt ya’ll get a penny from him.” 

“I have to try,” Gawain said. 

“Well, here,” the guard shrugged, pulling out a coin purse of his own. “It’s not much, but a nice chap like me does what he can to help a fellow man in need, and I’m sure it’s more than John will give ya. And hey, we’ll just have to pray the Church speeds up with their job and eradicates those Fey bastards, eh?” 

“Eh,” Gawain agreed halfheartedly, taking the coins. This was why he didn’t like using this particular story. It usually got him some kind of disrespectful comment towards the Fey. However, getting free money was new. Gawain was moved by the man’s generosity, at least. He was dismayed by the fact that it only came from hatred of Gawain’s kin. “Well, thank you. I’ll just be going in, then.” 

“Right, of course,” the guard said, motioning for Gawain to enter. 

Gawain spurred the horse through, pulling Lancelot’s cloak back around himself. The town was very crowded, everyone bustling and shouting over each other. It was really quite loud and annoying. Why did humans have to be so… like that? 

Gawain found exactly what he was looking for: An open-air market. Crowded stalls made for ideal stealing conditions, and it was easy to disappear into a crowd on the off chance that one got caught. He dismounted from his horse in front of a produce stall. 

“Hello, sir,” he said to the seller, losing the frantic air of a robbed man and instead donning the one of an interested customer. 

“Why, hello there!” The fat salesman gave Gawain a toothy smile and waddled over to stand in front of him. He was being _very_ cheerful, and it didn’t feel particularly genuine. “How can I help you today?” 

“I’m looking for some food for my horse,” Gawain lied. “She’s been running all night and deserves a treat.” 

“Aye, she is a beautiful horse, too,” The salesman agreed. “What’s her name?” 

“Uh…” Gawain thought quickly. “Gringolet.” 

“Are you sure?” The salesman looked at a tag on the mare’s saddle. “This here label says Aster.” 

_I should have read the damn label,_ Gawain thought. “That’s my name,” he said quickly. “She’s mine, after all.” 

“Well, if you’d like something for her, I’ve got plenty of fruits I’m sure she’d love.” He gestured to a bin of red apples, not seeing that Gringolet was actually eying the carrots hungrily. “These are fresh, right off the tree.” 

Gawain felt the insides of Lancelot’s cloak, remembering that his own clothes didn’t actually have pockets. Thankfully, the cloak was lined with pockets and straps, probably for holding excess weapons. They would serve to hold food as well. While the salesman’s back was turned, Gawain took several carrots and stuck them into the place where daggers were supposed to go. 

“I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “These apples look a bit… mushy. Are you sure they’re freshly picked?”

The salesman’s face fell slightly, though his fake smile didn’t drop. Gawain knew how to read expressions well enough that he realized he had guessed correctly; this man was selling apples he’d probably picked up from the ground. _Of course a Man-Blood would_ , Gawain thought bitterly. _Liars, all of them. Why am I surprised anymore?_

“They may seem that way, but I assure you, there’s no better fruits out there than mine.” The man held one up for Gawain to examine. “Perfectly round and red.” 

“Still, I’m not entirely convinced. Gringolet likes carrots, what can you tell me about yours?” 

Gawain traded places with the salesman, who fortunately didn’t notice that several of said carrots were missing. Gawain reached around himself to grab a few green and yellow apples, which looked quite a bit better than the red ones. He dropped them into pockets that had likely held throwing stars. 

“These are also locally grown,” the salesman said. He was completely oblivious to Gawain, who had moved on to the strawberries and was plucking them from their bins like picking flowers. “I used a special fertilizer to get the large size, so each one is well worth the money.” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Gawain said absentmindedly as he picked up an entire basket of blueberries and placed it in one of Gringolet’s saddlebags. He moved completely in time with the salesman to always stay behind his back. It was like dancing, but very one-sided and much more illegal. It might have been comical if he’d been watching from an outside perspective. However, everyone else in the market was too absorbed in their own business to notice him. “The fertilizer doesn’t affect the health benefits, does it?” 

“Oh, of course not.” The salesman moved the blueberry baskets around to hide the hole Gawain had left. He really must have been stupid to not realize Gawain was swiping his produce from right under his nose. “They’re still perfectly nutritious.” 

Finally, Gawain nabbed a pear and slipped it into the last free pocket, putting his hands back at his sides and closing the cloak. He faced the salesman fully for the first time, smiling innocently. “Alright. I’ll take as many as I can buy with this.” He handed the man the pouch of gold the guard had given him. After all, it would be suspicious if he asked all those questions and didn’t buy anything. 

The salesman gave him a thumbs-up and started to count the coins. He hefted about five carrots by their leaves and handed them to Gawain. He took one and offered it to Gringolet, who crunched on it gratefully. 

“Thank you, good sir,” Gawain grunted, pulling himself back onto her saddle. He was careful to move slowly so nothing fell out of its place. “I’ll be off now.”

“Good day to you, Mister Aster!” The salesman waved him goodbye as he rode off, looking slightly annoyed that he hadn’t bought more.

* * *

Squirrel and Lancelot had been silent for the first few minutes of waiting, but after about half an hour Squirrel decided that silence was really rather annoying and designed to teach Lancelot some Fey traditions. That way, he would fit in just fine when they joined the rest of Squirrel’s people. He’d been playing Fey games with the man for a while now. 

“In this game, you clap your hands together until one of you messes up,” Squirrel explained professionally. He clapped his hands together and then held them out for Lancelot to clap against with his own. The Ashman gave Squirrel an assumed smile and raised his arms weakly to meet Squirrel’s hands. Squirrel did the next motion very slowly so Lancelot could see, crossing his arm over each other and holding them out for another clap. Lancelot imitated him and Squirrel nodded. 

“Good,” the boy said. “Now, we do this one…” he kept demonstrating as the patterns got more complicated. Lancelot struggled to remember all of them and what order they went in, but clearly Squirrel was much more experienced. Lancelot messed up frequently. 

“I suppose I lose, then,” he said softly, but with mirth. 

“Well,” Squirrel wheedled, “I’ll give you a pass since this is your first time.” 

They smiled at each other. 

Fast hoofbeats caught both of their attention. Lancelot reached for his sword in case whoever was riding up might be unfriendly, but it was just Gawain. The Green Knight was smiling triumphantly. 

“My good lads,” he laughed as he dismounted, “I present to you your feast.” He opened Lancelot’s cloak like he was spreading his wings, and the insides of the black wool were completely filled with colorful fruits and vegetables. Lancelot was glad to see that what had once been used to hold weapons was now being used for a much more peaceful and nonviolent purpose. Maybe it was hope for him, an object of a similar nature. 

“Aw, yes,” Squirrel said, reaching for the strawberries. “Thank you, Green Knight, sir.” 

Gawain unclipped the cloak from his neck and laid it out like a picnic blanket. “Help yourself, Squirrel. There’s plenty to go around. Just- save some of the carrots, Gringolet seems to like them and I’m sure Goliath would appreciate them too.” 

“Gringolet?” Lancelot asked. He winced slightly as he tried to stand, leaning on the tree for support. Gawain grabbed his shoulder with one hand and put the other on the small of his back, helping him up. He had very strong hands, Lancelot noticed. “You gave her a name?”

“Apparently, her name is actually Aster,” Gawain admitted, “But Gringolet suits her better, don’t you think? Let’s get rid of that Man-Blood name and free her from them for good.” 

Gawain handed Lancelot an apple, which he bit into eagerly. “You should eat something, too,” Lancelot said as he chewed. 

“I’m fine,” Gawain said, waving the question away dismissively. “Besides, we need to save some of it. We don’t know when we’ll find the Fey, and we may need it later. Don’t worry,” he said at Lancelot’s look of concern, “I know how to ration food, and I’ve gone days without it before. I’ll live, I assure you.” 

Lancelot gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t accept that answer. If we’re eating, so should you.” 

“What Lancelot said,” Squirrel seconded, holding up a pear. “Green Knight, sir, you need to keep up your strength too. I mean, I’m sure I could fend off any enemies by myself in the case of an attack, but you should still eat.” 

Gawain couldn’t argue with that, and he reluctantly took the fruit. “Fine. But we better find the Fey soon, before we run out of food again.” 

“Don’t worry,” Lancelot said. “We’re getting close, and I’m feeling much better. At the rate we’re moving, we might even get there tomorrow.” 

Squirrel smiled widely. “We’re really that close? Then let’s go, let’s go! What are we wasting time on this for?” 

While Lancelot helped Squirrel onto Goliath, who was happily munching on his own carrot, Gawain moved the fruits into saddlebags instead of cloak pockets. He offered the now-empty garment back to Lancelot. “It’s yours,” he said. “You can put it back on now.” 

Lancelot looked at it for a minute before shaking his head. “It’s not mine,” he said. “It’s theirs.” He didn’t have to clarify for Gawain to know he meant the Red Paladins. “I don’t have anything to hide anymore. I’ll do without it.” 

Gawain nodded and put the cloak into a spare saddlebag. He then helped Lancelot onto his horse before jumping onto Gringolet and taking the lead. “To the Fey it is.”

* * *

Iris didn’t like riding horses. They were gross and loud and far too big. Nothing had a right to be this big. It was at least three heads taller than her. The nuns at the abbey might have joked that it wasn’t hard to be three heads taller than her. They probably would have laughed. Iris didn’t like it when they laughed at her, but for some reason, when she thought about it now, she wished she could hear their laughter again. 

Why was she thinking that? She had done right by burning them. The Lord would thank her. 

She rode a horse now, a big ugly brown one, which moved far too slowly. She couldn’t keep up with the other Guards she was riding with. 

“Do I really have to wear this stupid mask even now?” she called to her brothers ahead of her. “It seems silly. No one can see us. We’re on a road in the middle of the woods.” 

“We always wear the mask,” the one in front of her said callously. 

“Fine,” she muttered to herself. “That’s just fine.” She was already imagining throwing the stupid thing into the fire, watching it grow warm and melt. She liked imagining that she burned things she didn’t like. That had been why she burned the abbey, right? She didn’t like it there. 

“What are we even looking for?” she called. She imagined that the others were getting very annoyed with her constant talking, while they barely said anything. She might have cared once, but at this point she was beginning to get tired of second-guessing her every action. Her sisters at the abbey wouldn’t have minded her questions. Why should the Trinity Guard? 

“The Fey party was on the Beggar’s Coast when Dagmar attacked them, so they’re still around here somewhere. We’ll find them and finish them off for good.” 

“Unless they all fled like cowards,” added another Guard. 

_The Fey aren’t cowards_ , Iris thought. _I was with them. Even the children are ready to fight._ She thought back to the young boy who had taught her to use a bow. He’d been harsh, but at the same time, he’d been very similar to her, hadn’t he? She wondered where he was now. If he was even still alive. Did she wish he was? Yes, she supposed she did. Was that heresy? 

Whatever. Pitying a child was natural. She could overcome it if she had to. She could still kill them all.

And she would, she reminded herself. She was the Lord’s hand, and she would wield His sword to do His bidding. She would kill all the Fey. How she felt about it didn’t matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry I took so long to get this out!!!! I’ll try to be better about updates, but I can’t make any promises. Anyways, hope you enjoyed it!


	6. Disputes

Iris looked at the bludgeon in her hand hesitantly. She was really much better with a bow; why couldn’t they have given her that? Bludgeons were heavy and unwieldy. Honestly, Iris would probably end up hitting one of the other Guard members than anything she was aiming at. 

“I’m really much better with a bow,” she said. The Guards sitting across the campfire from her looked up. She could barely see them through their masks. She could barely see through her own mask. What was the point of these masks?

“These are the weapons of the Lord,” one Guard said. “By wielding them you are doing His will. Is that not what you want?” 

“Of course it is,” Iris said, “But I think I can carry out His will just as well with a bow. Unless you forget, I killed the Wolf-Blood Witch with a bow,” she added, trying to impress them. 

They looked at each other before turning back to her. “Sister Iris, we understand that you are new here. But the Trinity Guard wield bludgeons and that is all there is to it.” 

Iris scowled under her mask, suddenly grateful they couldn’t see her. She let the subject drop. She could tell she wasn’t going to get anywhere with these mindless drones. 

She got up and walked over to her horse. She checked that her bow and quiver were still tied to its saddle. She’d hidden them under a blanket so the other Brothers didn’t see, but she didn’t like going anywhere without a weapon she could use. She thought back to when the young Fey boy had taught her to use a bow. He’d explained it in a way that was remarkably harsh, but it had gotten through to her. At least he’d tried to explain it. The brothers just shoved the handle of a bludgeon at her and commanded her to wield it. How did they expect her to do that when she didn’t even know how? The weapon probably weighed more than she did. 

“Hey, girl,” she said, patting the horse. Make no mistake, she didn’t like it. But she felt like she needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t shut her down immediately. If that someone was an animal, so be it. 

Why was she thinking like this? Why did she feel like this? This was what she had wanted her whole life: To fight and kill the demons. 

So why did it feel like she was among them?

* * *

Merlin’s eyes didn’t open, at first. He tried to open them, but it was as though they were glued shut. He lifted a hand to rub them, and he found that his face was covered in some kind of wet paste. He wiped it off and sat up, blinking. 

He was alone in a canvas tent. It didn’t look like a Fey tent, though, which was cause for concern. He looked around for his staff or some kind of weapon. If he was among enemies, he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. 

Where was Morgana? Where was the Sword of Power? The young Widow had promised that they would go looking for Nimue. 

Oh. After he had healed. 

He put a hand to his chest, feeling for any remnant of the poison bubbles under his skin. He breathed deeply, testing his lungs. There was definitely still a hole in his chest, and his stomach, and… wow, it hurt everywhere. But it was a dull pain, as a cut that had already begun the healing process. There was more grey paste all over his torso, as well as white bandages stained with browning blood. 

A figure entered the tent, and paused when she saw that Merlin was sitting up. He examined her, squinting at the bright light flooding through the tent flaps. She had antlers, and her skin was peppered with light patches of skin like infectious freckles. She was Fey. 

“Where am I?” Merlin asked. “How did I get here?” 

“You need to lie back down,” the woman said, stepping forward to put a hand on his forehead and force him to lie on his back. “Too much stress, and you’ll tear your wounds open all over again. I worked too hard closing them, and I won’t have you ruining all my hard work.”

“All your…” Merlin traced his memory to the soonest he could. He'd quickly been losing consciousness, but he remembered sand. So much sand. And the sound of waves, and voices. 

They were on a beach somewhere. 

“Could you please tell me where we are?” Merlin asked impatiently. 

“We’re on the Beggar’s coast,” the woman answered. She began checking his bandages. “The Fey are hiding here with the raiders from the North who saved us. Arthur is leading us, along with that woman he’s so taken with.” 

“Woman?” Merlin’s heart leapt. “You mean Nimue is back?” 

The faun gave him a pitiful look. “The Wolf-Blood Witch has not returned. She sacrificed herself for us. The woman with Arthur is the Red Spear.” 

Merlin sighed, any hope he’d been given evaporating. He’d heard tales of the Red Spear, but he’d never met her. In any case, she wasn’t his daughter. “And the Widow?” 

“You mean Morgana,” the faun corrected him. 

“Sure,” he said. “Where is she?” 

“She’s gone looking for the Fey Queen. Speaking of her-” the faun woman stepped outside of the tent for a few moments and returned with a long bundle of fabric in her hands. “-She said to give you this when you woke up.” 

Merlin sat up again, ignoring her sound of protest. He took the bundle from her, already knowing what it was before he unwrapped it. The Sword of Power. 

“At last,” he whispered, turning over the hilt in his hand as he held it. It had been a long time since he had held this sword. He’d believed it to have been destroyed, but it wasn’t. Which meant his magic was still within reach. He gripped the hilt with both hands and began whispering an incantation under his breath to test his theory. 

“What are you-” the woman stepped back as wind started howling in the small tent. A few bottles fell off makeshift counters and plopped gently onto the carpeted floor. 

Merlin was right. When he finished the spell and felt his chest again, his wounds were gone. He was left slightly winded, but a healing spell was easy as pie at this point. It was as though he’d never been scratched. 

“”How did-” the woman stuttered as Merlin pulled off the bandages and reached for a cloak that was sitting on a rate a few feet away. It wasn’t his cloak, but his usual garments were probably stained with blood, and he wasn’t stepping out of this tent in nothing but trousers. 

He pulled it over his shoulders as he stepped into the sun. It was bright out, and he was right again, they were on the beach. The tents surrounding him looked to be Northern, which meant they were likely provided by the Red Spear. 

“ARTHUR,” he called loudly, hoping to get the manblood’s attention sooner rather than later. A dark-haired head turned around from where he was standing at the foot of a cliff, talking with a rather broad and square-shouldered woman. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said happily. “You’re awake!” 

“Unfortunately,” Merlin said grumpily, marching over. “What I wouldn’t give to sleep for a few more days. But I don’t have time.” 

Arthur tilted his head. “What do you mean by that?” 

“I must join Morgana in the hunt for Nimue,” Merlin explained. “Where is she right now?” 

“I believe my sister went back to the Narrows to search the lake,” Arthur said. 

Merlin scoffed. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s powerful, but young and inexperienced.” 

“Well, that  _ is  _ where you saw Nimue last,” Arthur said defensively. “Why? Where do you suggest she search?” 

“I suggest she search nowhere,” Merlin said. “I will go myself.” He turned around and approached the sea, still gripping the sword of power tightly. 

“Wait!” Arthur said. “A few Fey and I are about to go on patrol. Are you sure your skills wouldn’t be put to better use here, protecting the Fey people?” 

“I must look for my daughter.” 

Arthur nodded. “I understand. If Morgana asks, where can she find you?” 

Merlin hefted the sword above his head. “She can find me,” he said, “With Rugen the Leper King.” He swung the sword in a wide arc and shouted the magic words, and was gone in a flash of lightning.

* * *

Lancelot was feeling much better, really. He didn’t know why Gawain kept insisting that he always be sitting or lying down. He’d always considered himself a naturally fast healer, so the Green Knight’s fussing and fretting really wasn’t necessary. 

“Look, I’m just trying to make sure the wounds won’t get infected!” Gawain protested, lifting the hem of Lancelot’s jerkin to look at the bruises. “You really ought to learn to care more about your health.” 

“Well, they can’t get infected, because bruises are underneath the skin,” Lancelot replied. “You really ought to learn more about injuries.” 

“I know perfectly well that a bruise can’t get infected,” Gawain snapped. “I’m not talking about your bruises.” He put a gentle hand against Lancelot’s back, where the whip marks were still stark against Lancelot’s skin. 

That shut the Ashman up quickly. Though he’d been trying to open up more by not wearing his cloak or hood, and smiling more, he was still quite defensive of those scars. He’d refused to talk about it when Gawain had asked, even though he was growing to trust the Green Knight. He wasn’t ready to discuss that. Not yet. 

“Well, hurry up then,” he said meekly. “Your hands are cold.” 

Gawain made a point of pressing his cold hands into Lancelot’s stomach before pulling the cloth back down. Lancelot shivered. Was it from the cold? Obviously Gawain’s hands weren’t actually that cold. Why was he shivering? “Alright, alright, I’m done.” 

Squirrel emerged from the bushes, carrying several sticks in his small arms. “If you two are done bantering, I found enough wood to start a fire.” 

“It’s the middle of the day,” Gawain pointed out. 

Squirrel shrugged. “Well, I saw a maca plant and I thought we could make tea. My dad told me maca was good for healing.” 

“Did he now?” Gawain asked, raising his eyebrows. “Did he tell you anything else about maca tea?” 

“I think you should go look for some water,” Squirrel said. “Lancelot and I can start a fire.” 

“There’s no river anywhere around here,” Lancelot argued. 

“Oh, well, looks like you better get going then!” Squirrel said eagerly, shoving a waterskin into Gawain’s hands and pushing him towards the woods. “Bye now!” 

Gawain narrowed his eyes at the boy. “You’re plotting something.” 

“I have no idea why you would think that,” Squirrel said cheerfully. “Go on now!” 

Gawain looked at Lancelot while Squirrel feebly tried to push him into the trees. “You watch him. He’s planning something.” 

Lancelot crossed his arms dutifully, looking at Squirrel with faux sternness. “I’ll keep an eye on him.” 

“Good.” Gawain turned Squirrel back around and began walking into the trees. “I’ll be back soon enough. Don’t do anything a manblood would do.” 

As soon as Gawain disappeared into the greenery, Squirrel smiled at Lancelot with a wide grin that nearly split his face. 

“You are planning something,” Lancelot said. 

“Well, now that the Green Knight isn’t here to tell us no,” Squirrel wheedled, “I was thinking you could teach me to use a sword.” 

Lancelot gave him a knowing look. “I should have known.” 

“Look, there’s even one that’s my size!” Squirrel said heartily, hefting up Lancelot’s largest sword with some amount of effort. “See? I can wield it perfectly!” 

“Um, no,” Lancelot said, taking the sword away from the boy. “That sword is bigger than you are. You can use this one.” He picked up his shortsword from where it lay on the ground. It was really more of a long knife, but it was a sword in Squirrel’s hands. 

“So you’re agreeing to teach me?” Squirrel asked. 

“I suppose so,” Lancelot said. “Grudgingly.” 

“Great! What’s the first thing you do?” 

Lancelot put his hands on Squirrel’s shoulders and positioned him in an open part of the clearing so he wouldn’t accidentally whack any tree branches and get the sword stuck. “You need to work on your stance. Knees a bit more bent. Feet wider.” 

Squirrel did his best to make the accommodations. He was still a bit off, but not bad for a beginner. “Now?” 

“Well, we’re going to have to work on your posture,” Lancelot said, “But I’ll show you how to parry a blow first.” 

He swung his sword very, very slowly at Squirrel’s left arm. “This is the part where you move the sword to stop me,” he said. 

Squirrel obediently raised his blade to be right in the way of Lancelot’s. “Like that?” 

“Tilt a little more this way,” Lancelot advised, nodding his head in the right direction. “The blow will go to your shoulder instead of your elbow, making for a stronger block.” 

Squirrel tilted the blade, and Lancelot bonked it lightly with his own blade to test it. “Good,” he said. “Now, this is the part where you shove me off.” 

Squirrel twirled the blade to circle Lancelot’s before pushing the sword to face away from him. The noise of metal on metal echoed through the trees. “Like that?” 

“Very good,” Lancelot said. “Now this is the part where I go for your leg.” 

They went on like that for a few more minutes, Lancelot selecting the most obvious places to strike and Squirrel deflecting him each time. The boy was really quite a natural at this, but he was very impatient and started to get bored with the same maneuvers over and over again. 

“You’re going easy on me,” he pointed out. 

“That’s because you only just started,” Lancelot said. 

“You said I was good, though,” Squirrel protected. “Stop holding back. I can take it.” He wiggled his hips eagerly and he lifted the blade again, looking like he was ready to take on the whole of the Church by himself. 

Lancelot chuckled. “Are you sure you want me to?” 

“I can take it!” 

Lancelot struck faster than Squirrel’s eyes could follow. All of a sudden, there was a sword pushing his own blade into the dirt, then a twist on his wrist that made him drop the handle. The blade went soaring through the air and embedded itself into a tree a few feet away. Lancelot pointed his sword at Squirrel, whose eyes had gone wide with surprise. 

“This would be the part where I kill you,” Lancelot said smugly. He gave Squirrel a triumphant smile. 

“You’ll do no such thing!” a voice hollered from the bushes. A dark figure leapt out from behind a tree and swung a sword directly at Lancelot’s head. 

The Ashman ducked, his reflexes kicking in, and his immediate instinct was to pull Squirrel behind him and protect the boy from their attacker. However, when he reached for the boy, another hand behind him gripped the back of his collar and tugged him onto his back. 

He used the momentum to swing around and tangle his legs in with his attacker’s, pulling them to the ground while hauling him back to his feet. He whipped the sword up again and pointed it at the man he had on the ground at his feet. He had tusks protruding from the base of his skull and tattoos around his eyes.  _ A Fey.  _

He lowered his sword when he realized, and opened his mouth to apologize. Just then, a sharp pain at the base of his skull caused him to topple all over again and drop his sword. He fell to his knees and gripped at his skull, trying futilely to ease the ringing in his head. He’d been whacked with something, the butt of a spear most likely. 

A boot connected with his already broken ribs and he rolled onto his back with the force, gritting his teeth through the pain. He probably deserved to be attacked like this, didn’t he? The Fey had every right to hate him. But when he was gripped by the front of his jerkin by a rough hand and pulled up to his elbows, the face he saw belonged to a man. 

“So we’ve caught you at last, Weeping Monk,” he spat. Lancelot recognized him as one of the people who had been at the mill when he first met Gawain. He had shot the tusk Lancelot had been torturing. He winced at the unpleasant memory. That, and the pain of his wounds, which were now throbbing with new pain. 

“I didn’t-” Lancelot stuttered, trying to defend himself. But what could he say? He was an enemy of the Fey. “I wasn’t-” 

“You won’t hurt this boy again,” a woman said, pulling a wriggling Squirrel to her side. She wasn’t Fey, either. She wore the black garb of a northern raider, and had a harsh face. She held a spear.  _ So it was you who hit me in the back of the head _ . 

“He’s not going to hurt me!” Squirrel yelled, trying to wiggle out of her grasp. However, she gripped his shirt like an iron vice, unmoving even as he struggled. “Lay off him!” 

“Don’t worry, Squirrel,” The man on top of Lancelot said. He pulled a dagger from his belt and held it at Lancelot’s throat. The Ashman swallowed nervously. Despite all his pent-up hatred and self-loathing, he wasn’t sure he wanted his throat slit like an animal. “You’re safe now. There’s no need to be afraid of  _ this  _ monster anymore.” He kneed Lancelot harshly in the stomach, making his cough. 

“I’m not afraid, Arthur!” Squirrel shouted. 

“Yes, we know, you’re very brave,” Arthur said. “Red Spear, take him back to the camp and find him a healer. I’ll take care of this one.” He pushed the knife a bit farther into Lancelot’s neck.

“Listen to me,” Lancelot whispered, as if talking any louder would push Arthur over the edge. “The Green Knight-” 

“Is dead because of you!” Arthur interrupted. “You may have captured him alive, but we know the Paladins well enough to know that they butchered him, probably cut him to pieces before throwing what was left to the dogs. You may not have wielded the knife, but his blood is on your hands.” 

_ Don’t remind me,  _ Lancelot thought. He flashed back to when he had talked to Gawain in Brother Salt’s tent. The Fey had been close to death, breathing heavily and severely burned and beaten. How someone could go through so much pain and still not crack was beyond Lancelot. After all, he himself had cracked long ago. 

“I didn’t-” Lancelot started to say. 

“ _ Dammit _ , Arthur!” scolded an angry voice from the woods. Lancelot and Arthur both looked up to see Gawain running through the bushes, a full waterskin in hand. “He was  _ just  _ starting to get better!” 

“Gawai-” Arthur lowered his blade in surprise, paling at the sight of one who he’d just been describing as dead. He didn’t have time to finish his exclamation before Gawain shoved him roughly off Lancelot. He took Lancelot’s face in his hands and examined him, scanning for new injuries. 

“Are you alright?” Gawain asked softly. 

Lancelot nodded, closing his eyes in relief. “Couldn’t have come back  _ before  _ I got the lights knocked out of me, could you?” he breathed. 

Gawain chuckled. 

“What-” Arthur stammered. “Gawain?” 

“Last time I checked,” Gawain said annoyedly, not looking away from Lancelot. He stood up and helped the Ashman to his feet, letting Lancelot lean on him for support. 

“But you’re dead!” Arthur reasoned. “Kaze said the Monk had captured you! She said the paladins would kill you! I assumed-” 

“Trust a manblood to jump to conclusions,” Gawain said bitterly. “Get off Squirrel.” He motioned to the woman with the spear, who had been silently witnessing the whole scene through watchful eyes. She let go of the boy, who ran to Lancelot’s side and gripped him protectively, as if to prove to Arthur that he was trustworthy. 

“I don’t understand,” Arthur said. “He said he was going to kill Squirrel!” 

“We were training,” Squirrel said, as if it should have been obvious. 

“I should have known,” Gawain cursed quietly. He turned to Lancelot. “I thought you said you were going to watch him!” 

“I was!” Lancelot asserted. “I had him in my sights the whole time!” 

“I didn’t mean physically watch him, I meant keep him out of trouble!” 

“He wasn’t in any trouble, we were perfectly fine-” 

“Oh, is that why I came back to three weapons being pointed in your direction?” 

“Ahem.” The woman cleared her throat, breaking up the small argument. “I take it there is no threat, then.” 

“You are clearly more perceptive than this dunderhead here,” Gawain said, jerking his chin at an offended-looking Arthur. “Lancelot meant him no harm.” 

“Lancelot?” Arthur repeated. “I’m sorry, is this a different Weeping Monk than the one who tried to kill you and I on various occasions? Is this a different man than the one who killed Bergerum and nearly took the entire mill as well? He’s killed countless Fey-”

“I’m sorry,” Gawain interrupted Arthur, “Is this a different Lancelot than the one who saved Squirrel from being slaughtered and had been nothing but helpful since we escaped the Church? And, as I recall, it was  _ you  _ who killed Bergerum.” Gawain stared hatefully at Arthur. 

“I still have the scar on my chest from where he nearly cut me open,” Arthur said ruefully, putting a hand to his breast in memory of the painful slash. 

“I’m not denying that he has done evil work,” Gawain said. “But he has changed.” 

The two stared at each other in a moment of quiet yet tangible animosity. Lancelot could tell they did not get along at all. 

Lancelot looked up at Gawain, who was still unabashed and determined. He looked like how Lancelot had always envisioned angels. The fact that he was willing to defend Lancelot so firmly, and was so protective only after a few days… did the small amount of good Lancelot had done really outweigh all the bad in Gawain’s mind? 

“Well, if you’ll show us back to camp,” Gawain said finally, “I’ll be taking Lancelot to a healer. Which he needs now, because of you.” 

Arthur didn’t reply. He simply pursed his lips and nodded unhappily, probably figuring it wasn’t worth the energy it would take to argue with Gawain any more. 

Squirrel smiled up at Lancelot. “See?” he said. “We told you we’d vouch for you!” 

Lancelot smiled back weakly as he put a hand to his aching ribs. “I only wish you’d done it a little sooner.” 

“You’ll live,” Gawain joked, giving Lancelot’s shoulder a quick pat. “Are you ready to face the rest of the Fey?” 

Lancelot’s eyes darkened. However ready he was, it wouldn’t be enough. He knew it. 

“I suppose I shall have to be,” he said instead of ‘no’. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy...
> 
> Sorry this came late :/ I know I said I would update more but I lied... life is really kicking my ass right now so that's my excuse. Anyways hope you enjoyed this chapter :) Let me know what you thought of it please and thanks


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